The Rhinemann Exchange (19 page)

Kendall rose from his chair; he spoke softly. “Details. I’ll work them out.… And you’ll pay me. Christ, will you pay.”

The island of Terceira in the Azores, 837 miles due west of Lisbon, was a familiar stop to the trans-Atlantic pilots flying the southern route to the United States mainland. As they descended there was always the comfortable feeling that they would encounter minor traffic to be serviced by efficient ground crews who allowed them to be rapidly airborne again. Lajes Field was good duty; those assigned there recognized that and performed well.

Which was why the major in command of the B-17 cargo and personnel carrier which had a Captain David Spaulding as its single passenger couldn’t understand the delay. It had begun at descent altitude, fourteen thousand feet. The Lajes tower had interrupted its approach instructions and ordered the pilot to enter a holding pattern. The major had objected; there was no necessity from his point of view. The field was clear. The Lajes tower radioman agreed with the major but said he was only repeating telephone instructions from American headquarters in Ponta Delgada on the adjacent island of São Miguel. Az-Am-HQ gave the orders; apparently it was expecting someone to meet the plane and that someone hadn’t arrived. The tower would keep the major posted and, incidentally, was the major carrying some kind of priority cargo? Just curiosity.

Certainly not. There was
no
cargo; only a military attaché named Spaulding from the Lisbon embassy. One of those goddamned diplomatic teaparty boys. The trip was a routine return flight to Norfolk, and why the hell couldn’t he land?

The tower would keep the major posted.

The B-17 landed at 1300 hours precisely, its holding pattern lasting twenty-seven minutes.

David got up from the removable seat, held to the deck by clamps, and stretched. The pilot, an aggressive major who looked roughly thirteen years old to Spaulding, emerged from the enclosed cockpit and told him a jeep was outside—or would be outside shortly—to drive the captain off the base.

“I’d like to maintain a decent schedule,” said the young pilot, addressing his outranked elder humorlessly. “I realize you diplomatic people have a lot of friends in these social posts, but we’ve got a long lap to fly. Bear it in mind, please.”

“I’ll try to keep the polo match down to three chukkers,” replied David wearily.

“Yeah, you do that.” The major turned and walked to the rear of the cabin, where an air force sergeant had sprung open the cargo hatch used for the aircraft’s exit. Spaulding followed, wondering who would meet him outside.

“My name’s Ballantyne, captain,” said the middle-aged civilian behind the wheel of the jeep, extending his hand to Spaulding. “I’m with Azores-American. Hop in; we’ll only be a few minutes. We’re driving to the provost’s house, a few hundred yards beyond the fence.”

David noticed that the guards at the gate did not bother to stop Ballantyne, they just waved him through. The civilian turned right on the road paralleling the field and accelerated. In less time than it took to adequately light a cigarette, the jeep entered the driveway of a one-story Spanish hacienda and proceeded past the house to what could only be described as an out-of-place gazebo.

“Here we are. Come on, captain,” said Ballantyne, getting out, indicating the screen door of the screened enclosure. “My associate, Paul Hollander, is waiting for us.”

Hollander was another middle-aged civilian. He was nearly bald and wore steel-rimmed spectacles that gave him an appearance beyond his years. As with Ballantyne, there was a look of intelligence about him. Both small and capital
I.
Hollander smiled genuinely.

“This is a distinct pleasure, Spaulding. As so many others, I’ve admired the work of the man in Lisbon.”

Capital
I
, thought David.

“Thank you. I’d like to know why I’m not him any longer.”

“I can’t answer that. Neither can Ballantyne, I’m afraid.”

“Perhaps they thought you deserved a rest,” offered Ballantyne. “Good Lord, you’ve been there—how long is it now? Three years with no break.”

“Nearer four,” answered David. “And there were plenty of ‘breaks.’ The Costa Brava beats the hell out of Palm Beach. I was told that you—I assume it’s you—have my orders.… I don’t mean to seem impatient but there’s a nasty teenager with a major’s rank flying the plane.
He’s
impatient.”

“Tell him to go to blazes,” laughed the man named Hollander. “We
do
have your orders and also a little surprise for you: you’re a lieutenant colonel. Tell the major to get his uniform pressed.”

“Seems I jumped one.”

“Not really. You got your majority last year. Apparently you don’t have much use for titles in Lisbon.”

“Or military associations,” interjected Ballantyne.

“Neither, actually,” said David. “At least I wasn’t broken. I had premonitions of walking guard duty around latrines.”

“Hardly.” Hollander sat down in one of the four deck chairs, gesturing David to do the same. It was his way of indicating that their meeting might not be as short as Spaulding had thought. “If it was a time for parades or revelations, I’m sure you’d be honored in the front ranks.”

“Thanks,” said David, sitting down. “That removes a very real concern. What’s this all about?”

“Again, we don’t have answers, only ex cathedra instructions. We’re to ask you several questions—only one of which could preclude our delivering your orders. Let’s get that over with first; I’m sure you’d like to know at least where you’re going.” Hollander smiled his genuine smile again.

“I would. Go on.”

“Since you were relieved of your duties in Lisbon, have you made contact—intentional or otherwise—with
anyone
outside the embassy? I mean by this, even the most innocuous good-bye? Or a settling of a bill—a restaurant, a store; or a chance run-in with an acquaintance at the airport, or on the way to the airport?”

“No. And I had my luggage sent in diplomatic cartons; no suitcases, no traveling gear.”

“You’re thorough,” said Ballantyne, still standing.

“I’ve had reason to be. Naturally, I had engagements for the week after I returned from the north country.…”

“From
where?
” asked Hollander.

“Basque and Navarre. Contact points below the border. I always scheduled engagements right after; it kept a continuity. Not many, just enough to keep in sight. Part of the cover. I had two this week: lunch and cocktails.”

“What about them?” Ballantyne sat down next to David.

“I instructed Marshall—he’s the cryp who took my orders—to call each just before I was supposed to show up. Say I’d be delayed. That was all.”

“Not that you wouldn’t
be
there?” Hollander seemed fascinated.

“No. Just delayed. It fit the cover.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” laughed Hollander. “You answered affirmatively and then some. How does New York strike you?”

“As it always has: pleasantly for limited periods.”

“I don’t know for how long but that’s your assignment. And out of uniform, colonel.”

“I lived in New York. I know a lot of people there.”

“Your new cover is simplicity itself. You’ve been discharged most honorably after service in Italy. Medical reasons, minor wounds.” Hollander took out an envelope from the inside pocket of his jacket and handed it across to David. “It’s all here. Terribly simple, papers … everything.”

“O.K.,” said David, accepting the envelope. “I’m a ruptured duck in New York. So far, very nice. You couldn’t make it the real thing, could you?”

“The papers are simple, I didn’t say authentic. Sorry.”

“So am I. What happens then?”

“Someone’s very solicitous of you. You have an excellent job; good pay, too. With Meridian Aircraft.”

“Meridian?”

“Blueprint Division.”

“I thought Meridian was in the Midwest. Illinois or Michigan.”

“It has a New York office. Or it does now.”

“Aircraft blueprints, I assume.”

“I should think so.”

“Is it counterespionage?”

“We don’t know,” answered Ballantyne. “We weren’t given any data except the names of the two men you’ll report to.”

“They’re in the envelope?”

“No,” said Hollander. “They’re verbal and to be committed. Nothing written until you’re on the premises.”

“Oh, Christ, this all sounds like Ed Pace. He loves this kind of nonsense.”

“Sorry, again. It’s above Pace.”

“What?… I didn’t think anything was, except maybe Holy Communion.… Then how do
you
report? And to whom?”

“Priority courier straight through to an address in Washington. No department listing, but transmission
and
priority cleared through Field Division, Fairfax.”

Spaulding emitted a soft, nearly inaudible whistle. “What are the two names?”

“The first is Lyons. Eugene Lyons. He’s an aerophysicist. We’re to tell you that he’s a bit strange, but a goddamned genius.”

“In other words, reject the man; accept the genius.”

“Something like that. I suppose you’re used to it,” said Ballantyne.

“Yes,” answered Spaulding. “And the other?”

“A man named Kendall.” Hollander crossed his legs. “Nothing on him; he’s just a name. Walter Kendall. Have no idea what he does.”

David pulled the strap across his waist in the removable seat. The B-17’s engines were revving at high speed, sending vibrations through the huge fuselage. He looked about in a way he hadn’t looked at an airplane before, trying to reduce the spans and the plating to some kind of imaginary blueprint. If Hollander’s description of his assignment was accurate—and why shouldn’t it be?—he’d be studying aircraft blueprints within a few days.

What struck him as strange were the methods of precaution. In a word, they were unreasonable; they went beyond even abnormal concerns for security. It would have been a simple matter for him to report to Washington, be reassigned,
and be given an in-depth briefing. Instead, apparently there would be
no
briefing.

Why not?

Was he to accept open-ended orders from two men he’d never met before? Without the sanction of recognition—even introduction—from any military authority? What the hell was Ed Pace doing?

Sorry.… It’s above Pace.

Those were the words Hollander had used.

 … 
cleared through Field Division, Fairfax.

Hollander again.

Except for the White House itself, David realized that Fairfax was about as high up as one could go. But Fairfax was still
military.
And he wasn’t being instructed by Fairfax, simply “cleared.”

Hollander’s remaining “questions” had not been questions at all, really. They had been introduced with interrogatory words:
do you, have you, can you.
But not questions; merely further instructions.

“Do you have friends in any of the aircraft companies? On the exective level?”

He didn’t know, for God’s sake. He’d been out of the country so damned long he wasn’t sure he had any friends, period.

Regardless, Hollander had said, he was to avoid any such “friends”—should they exist. Report their names to Walter Kendall, if he ran across them.

“Have you any women in New York who are in the public eye?”

What kind of question was
that?
Silliest goddamned thing he’d ever heard of! What the hell did Hollander mean?

The balding, bespectacled Az-Am agent had clarified succinctly. It was listed in David’s file that he had supplemented his civilian income as a radio performer. That meant he knew actresses.

And actors, Spaulding suggested. And so what?

Friendships with well-known actresses could lead to newspaper photographs, Hollander rejoined. Or speculations in columns; his name in print. That, too, was to be avoided.

David recalled that he did know—knew—several girls
who’d done well in pictures since he’d left. He’d had a short-lived affair with an actress who was currently a major star for Warner Brothers. Reluctantly he agreed with Hollander; the agent was right. Such contacts would be avoided.

“Can you absorb quickly, commit to memory, blueprint specifications unrelated to industrial design?”

Given a breakdown key of correlative symbols and material factors, the answer was probably yes.

Then he was to prepare himself—however it was done—for aircraft design.

That, thought Spaulding, was obvious.

That Hollander had said, was all he could tell him.

The B-17 taxied to the west extreme of the Lajes runway and turned for takeoff. The disagreeable major had made it a point to be standing by the cargo hatch looking at his wristwatch when Spaulding returned. David had climbed out of the jeep, shaken hands with Ballantyne and held up three fingers to the major.

“The timer lost count during the last chukker,” he said to the pilot. “You know how it is with these striped-pants boys.”

The major had not been amused.

The aircraft gathered speed, the ground beneath hammered against the landing gear with increasing ferocity. In seconds the plane would be airborne. David bent over to pick up an Azores newspaper that Hollander had given him and which he’d placed at his feet when strapping himself in.

Suddenly it happened. An explosion of such force that the removable seat flew out of its clamps and jettisoned into the right wall of the plane, carrying David, bent over, with it. And he’d never know but often speculate on whether that Azores newspaper had saved his life.

Smoke was everywhere; the aircraft careened off the ground and spun laterally. The sound of twisting metal filled the cabin with a continuous, unending scream; steel ribs whipped downward from the top and sides of the fuselage—snapping, contorted, sprung from their mountings.

A second explosion blew out the front cabin; sprays of blood and pieces of flesh spat against the crumbling, spinning walls. A section of human scalp with traces of burnt
hairline under the bright, viscous red fluid slapped into Spaulding’s forearm. Through the smoke David could see the bright sunlight streaming through the front section of the careening plane.